


Not yours to keep

by captainhurricane



Series: Kinktober 2016 [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: There is a crackle of electricity between K and Lynch, a spilled darkness that splits them both apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> day 9: asphyxiation.

Does it really matter how it starts because they always end up in two places: on the streets or on the sheets. Their cars- the knife-sharp Mitsubishi and the inky-black BMW- always reach the end line at the same time, the neon lights always hit the mirror-lenses of Kavinsky's douchebag-glasses in the right way, make him seem even more like a white-clad ghost behind the wheel. The sheets, however- not that there are always sheets. Sometimes it's just the floor or the wall or a couch, doors closed behind them, the car wheel pressing against Ronan's back and their kisses full of teeth and hissed insults. 

"Oh, sweet little Lynch," Kavinsky purrs, lets out his smoky laugh and just lets Ronan drive out such obscene, nighttime noise out of him. Ronan never has pet names for him, Ronan never calls him by his first name- Joseph is an entity that no longer exists, a little boy with a little bit of dwindling hope in the world around him but K, Kavinsky, the king of the night and the lord of the streets, now he is alive even when he might be burning on the inside. 

"No one can know, no one can fucking know," Ronan often growls, gets his fingers around Kavinsky's thin neck and squeezes. Kavinsky's teeth are a little crooked, his lips often dry and bleeding. Without his glasses he doesn't look vulnerable- just a little more feral, just a little more out there. Kavinsky isn't meant to be caged. Ronan isn't meant to be caged. So maybe that's why they fit: like broken little pieces of a puzzle no one wants to put together. 

Kavinsky's hands are ice-cold when they curl around Ronan's wrists, when he leans a little further against the Mitsubishi's sleek leather-seat.   
"Don't be a pussy, Lynch, harder," Kavinsky says and whisky and smoke and the disgusting, sweet smell of weed roll off him in waves. Ronan reveals his teeth and meets Kavinsky's red-rimmed eyes, the pupils blown wide and the Joker-grin widening his thin lips. It's anger that hisses through Ronan's gritted teeth, yet it's arousal that makes him roll his hips, push himself against Kavinsky. It's the best like this: their hook-ups, this filthy little secret neither admits exists out of this bubble of neon lights and nightly magic; hurried, angry, Ronan on top and his fingers squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. 

Kavinsky wheezes, his laughter briefer, huskier. He thrusts his hips up, licks his lips.   
"You like how this feels, raven boy?" They push, push, thrust against each other and Ronan leans a little closer. Maybe to kiss him, maybe to kill him.   
"Shut the fuck up, K," Ronan murmurs and swallows Kavinsky's breathless moan. Ronan thumbs his jaw, makes him tilt his head further back. 

The night hisses behind the Mitsubishi's windows, the ghosts of this town knock and keep knocking but neither boy will answer. 

Kavinsky gets his hands on Ronan's hips, his skeleton-hands cold as they slip under Ronan's tank, scratching and caressing and then slipping forward.   
"Gonna get me off like this, Lynch," Kavinsky murmurs, his grin stretched unnaturally on his face, his breath coming in short gasps. Ronan's grip tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens. They're moving constantly now, the fabric a meager border between their shared orgasms. 

"Shut up," Ronan growls and kisses him, slips in a tongue so as not to hear anymore of the darkness spilling from Kavinsky's lips- Joseph Kavinsky never has a good word for anyone, but has a lot of words for everyone and Ronan doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to hear how Kavinsky thinks he knows him- why are a raven boy like Ronan could ever pull a broken raven like Kavinsky out of the mud.

Kavinsky doesn't want to reach the sky anyway and Ronan doesn't want to share the day with him, nothing but this: his hands around Kavinsky's neck, Kavinsky's hands between them, taking out both of their dicks and starting to jerk them off.   
"Fuck yeah, Lynch, fuck yeah, sweetheart, gonna fucking come like this," Kavinsky talks because he likes the sound of his own voice, this self-proclaimed king of the streets and Ronan pushes and squeezes and thrusts against him all the more harder, keeping this secret hidden the longest.

Ronan is adept at keeping secrets after all and his daily friends, his nightly friends, his traveller companions don't need to know. Maybe, just maybe Kavinsky tells his pack of wolves, laughs about the bruises around his neck or his split lip or bears them as marks of honour, says that _Ronan Lynch is a wolf like them and that one day, just maybe one day Lynch will actually fucking get it._


End file.
